


Keeping Secrets

by frankie_felony (dextrosinistral)



Series: Some Secrets Are Prettier Than Others [2]
Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Gen, Lipstick & Lip Gloss, Makeover by Clint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-05
Updated: 2012-06-05
Packaged: 2017-11-06 21:53:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/423671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dextrosinistral/pseuds/frankie_felony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, it's better to keep a few secrets.</p><p> </p><p>Pre-movie, non-spoilery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keeping Secrets

**Author's Note:**

> You don't have to have read anything else that is (or will be) in this series to read each individual story, nor do you have to read them "in order".
> 
> After writing Clint giving Coulson a makeover, I decided that he's not the only one who should get one.

Natasha's voice is a sudden break in a long silence. "Teach me how you do it."

"You're kidding, right?" He stares up at her. "I'm pretty sure _you_ just kicked _my_ ass. Don't think you need any lessons." He raises his eyebrows. "Unless you're asking me to teach you how to lose with dignity."

She makes a disgusted noise, shoves him to the side, pushing herself onto her feet. "You. Are an idiot. I'm asking about, you know... " She waves a hand in the air, "your face."

Clint frowns, getting up. "What, you got a problem with it or something?"

He almost doesn't catch the bottle of water Tasha tosses at his head. "No. Your... makeup. I've seen some of your work, and don't think I haven't noticed you still have your supply."

He shrugs, opens the bottle and takes a drink. "You do a pretty decent job by yourself, you know. For someone that doesn't know what she's doing."

"I'm not asking your opinion, you ass. I only know a few basics, and I know you can help me do better than that." She sighs. "And you'll regret it if you don't."

Clint stops pouring the last of the water over his head. "I liked you better when we were trying to kill each other."

One corner of her mouth jerks slightly upwards. "I could say the same. I'll meet you in your room after you get a shower."

Half an hour later, they're sitting on the floor of Clint's room under a bright white lamp, staring down at a notebook full of headshots and Natasha's handful of cosmetics. She's looking through some of the pictures, making note of the sorts of things she'd like to learn, and he's busy going through his own supply of brushes, pencils and a myriad of things Natasha can't quite identify.

"All of your make-up is shit," he tells her, and she looks up at him, unsurprised. "You have to get rid of it all. Don't worry, we'll replace it." He tosses it all in the bin, replacing each item with one of his own. "Where do you want to start?"

"You mean after you re-teach me from the start? Covering bruises. I know you do it after assignments."

He spreads his hands wide, offers a mock-ingenuous look. "You got me." He picks up a couple of things, eyeballs her skin. "You did do your usual routine after your shower, besides the make-up part, right?"

Natasha sighs again. "You say that like I'd leave the bathroom without sunscreen."

"No need to get defensive, I'm just checking. So after you do your sunscreen and moisturiser thing – you do put your sunscreen on first, right? Because that's how you're supposed to do it—"

"I am aware."

"—then you'd use a primer, it makes a nice, smooth surface for any following make-up and helps it all stay on longer." He works on her face as he's telling her all of these things, stopping every now and again to let her ask questions, if she wants, or to let her see what he's done so far. When he's finished, he hands her a mirror. "That should be fine for any day, it won't take too long."

She just looks at herself for a moment, then at Clint. "Tell me what you used, and then show me something else."

So he lays everything out, in the order he put it on her face, writes up a list as he goes. "We can go get all of these things for you tomorrow or something." He pauses. "And, I guess, you have to practise, too."

A bit more work is done, she finds a look she likes that she could wear for assignments if she wants to, and Clint calls them done for the evening. He says that they can work on their skills any time, and an unlikely, unusual friendship starts. They spar, then they work on make-up, Clint giving her pointers as he watches what she does – "Hold the brush closer to the point, it will give you more control," he says, or, "Don't forget to shake some of the excess powder off the brush, so you don't put too much on your face." She takes his directions, gets better.

One day, they're throwing down in the gym; she's had a bad day, he's looking for a good fight. They both end up with bruises, and Clint wins this time. He laughs, pulls her up, "You know, now would be a pretty good time to teach you how to hide those."

She frowns a little, "Let me go shower."

"I'll be waiting."

And he is. She shows up, sits on the bed, despite Clint's protests— _my bed is sacred, Tasha!_ —and tries not to groan. "Shut up, Clint; that was a good fight."

He grins, knowing 'good' is pretty much Tasha-code for 'fucking awesome', and decides to let her be. "Fine, we can sit on the bed." He gets some specific stuff out of his drawers, brings it over to the bed. "This is a lot more time-consuming than any of what we've done before, so don't go wash it off in half an hour."

"I must have hit you in the head or something. Do you really think I'm going to do that?"

He lifts one shoulder. "I just have to be sure." He hands her a few brushes, some concealers in a variety of colours. "We'll start with this one to cover up the majority of the discoloration... " He starts on a bruise he has, watching for Natasha to follow his lead. When she does, he continues working and explaining, pausing every so often to check her work. "You know, you're really good at this."

She looks up from setting the makeup on a bruise on her arm. "You're not a bad teacher."

He smiles, then. "Thanks, Tasha. We're not done yet, though." They continue working, and after a while, Clint stops and just lets Natasha work. He watches her to be sure she's getting the technique right without his direction. When he's satisfied that she is, he goes back to his own work, finishing up covering whatever bruises will be visible in his usual clothes, then leans back against his pillows and closes his eyes.

Natasha continues working on her bruises, enjoying the silence while it lasts. "Don't forget to set it all," Clint says after a while, still not moving otherwise.

"Guess you got the name Hawkeye for more than one reason."

"Damn right." He smirks, opens one eye. "Are you done yet?"

"No," she grinds her teeth, continuing to work. "Not all of us elbowed our sparring partner in the eye earlier."

"Sorry." He closes his eye again. "As you were. Tell me when you're done." He waits, checks her work when she declares herself done, looks over and shrugs. "Looks good. Now get off my bed, so I can get some sleep."

She leaves, he takes a nap, and things go back to their usual routine. Natasha sticks to her usual minimal daily routine, only stops by Clint's room when she needs to hide a bruise that she doesn't want noticed or questioned. Clint keeps quiet, doesn't mind that Natasha isn't stopping by so frequently; he'd been starting to feel like someone would get the wrong idea—and that that person might even be him.

Then, one evening, after a particularly stressful assignment, Clint retreats to his room. He's too tired to spar with Natasha and doesn't particularly feel like getting more contusions than he already has, so he pulls out his kit. After he learned the art, doing make-up has been a decent way for him to relax. He's just about to start when there's a soft knock on his door. He sighs, "Come in."

Natasha opens the door, peering in. "Is it… May I come in?"

He sighs, "Yeah, I guess so."

She comes in, sits at the foot of the bed, almost hesitant. "I... don't mean to disturb you."

"Nah, it's all right. I don't mind some company." He picks his brush up again, settles back, looks at his mirror, and then at her. "I'd say, 'hope you don't mind some quiet,' but I already know you don't."

She smiles, then, "Do you mind if I watch you work?"

He looks back at his mirror, shakes his head, starts working. "Go for it."

Once he's given himself a nice, even, clean canvas to work with, he starts with his eyes: neutrals, a bit of golden shimmer, a thin black line. It's weird, being watched. Weird, but not... uncomfortable, exactly. He feels the mattress shift as he does his other eye, and when he looks up again, Natasha is sitting right beside him, head tilted, a peculiar expression on her face.

He looks back at her for a long moment, and then puts away the eye make-up, picks another brush and two shades of red. He uses the back of his hand to mix a tiny drop of each of them together, paints his lips, then sets the brush down and uses a tissue to wipe most of the lipstick from his hand.

He tosses it away, and turns to find himself nose-to-nose with Natasha. "Red is a really good colour for you," she whispers, and leans forward to kiss him.

"I—" He stops. It's been a while, and anyway, it's just a kiss. So he kisses back and looks at her, a little puzzled. "Natasha, um, you know I'm—"

"I know." She lifts one shoulder. "You just look really good in lipstick, and it's hard to... date in our line of work."

He tucks a stray bit of hair behind her ear. "I know. It's okay. Shit happens." He laughs, then. "You know, I only ever kissed a girl once before."

Natasha raises an eyebrow. "You know they say you should try something at least twice before you decide you don't like it."

He frowns for a moment. "Wait. Did you just crack a joke?"

"I can make jokes." She licks her lips.

He sighs, opens his mouth and closes it again, shakes his head. "Whatever you say, Tasha. Come on, let's watch the worst movie you can think of. Maybe mocking strangers will help take the edge off of tonight."

"Any movie you own is the worst movie I can think of, Clint. You have terrible taste."

He feigns indignation. "I have awesome taste!" He can't stop himself from grinning, though. "Cheesy sci-fi is awesome, don't lie to yourself. I'm going to go wash my face; you want to pick something out?"

In the morning, Clint nearly shoves Natasha out of the bed when he wakes up, curled up against her, one arm flung across the bed. "What the hell happened?"

She rolls her eyes up to look at him. "You painted yourself up like a 1940's pin-up, I kissed you because I happen to be a fan of the 1940's pin-up look, and we watched one of your awful movies and fell asleep."

"You stole the blanket, you... blanket-thieving person."

"You _owed_ me that blanket. I put up with your terrible cinematic choices."

"I do not make 'terrible cinematic choices'." Clint sighs. "Fine, I do have questionable taste in movies, but if you tell anyone, I'll tell them all that you kissed me and _liked it_. I'm pretty sure I can smear my reputation better than you could."

Eventually, they come to an agreement, and Natasha sometimes comes and watches Clint give himself a killer smoky eye or cover up his bruises, and Clint sometimes lets her crash in his room or pick a _good_ movie. If Clint ever finds himself kind of enjoying having an audience or Natasha ever likes one of Clint's awful movies, they never mention it.

Somehow, keeping secrets makes them work together better.


End file.
